


Two Options

by brokenEisenglas



Series: Decisions [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BAMF John Watson, Dancing, Drinking, Emerald satin, Freeform, Gen, Headcanon/Scenarios, Heels, How do you even write exotic dancing?, Ivory skin, M/M, Maybe Gay, Not possible after two shots of whiskey, Other, Sacrifice, Sherlock is a hero, Smoking, Threats, exotic dancing, friends - Freeform, not gay
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-19
Updated: 2014-12-19
Packaged: 2018-03-02 04:28:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2799563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brokenEisenglas/pseuds/brokenEisenglas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Part of the "Decisions" series...</p><p>When Sherlock is faced with a decision, he makes the better choice... despite his health. John is posed with a situation he would never have considered possible.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Two Options

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is not some of my best writing. To be honest, it needs a lot of things, but I am happy with it. At least the idea is out there now. Been working on this for a while and finally decided to post it. Working on Part 2.
> 
> Song is "Voodoo" by Godsmack  
> The opening is imagined to be a transitional piece from silence to entry... It's in my head, sorry.
> 
> These // mean "in the past" or "a memory". The format I chose to post this with was not cooperating, so I had to find a makeshift symbol.

The pain of betrayal had been too much. When he looked at her, he couldn’t see his loving, pregnant wife. No, John Watson didn’t see Mary Morstan; instead, he saw the woman he would never know- A. G. R. A. After learning Mary had shot Sherlock, John had no desire to be around her. Thus, he moved his most essential belongings back into his room in the central London flat. Upon his return, Mrs. Hudson had baked biscuits and made tea with a reminder that “I’m not your housekeeper” just for John’s benefit. She had fussed over his tiredness and offered some herbal remedies she had read about in some health magazine. When she departed, John could not help but be grateful…and worried.  
For months, John stayed at Baker Street as Sherlock recovered in hospital. Finally, when his friend could leave, John helped Sherlock back into 221B and did what he would normally do. Tea, food, and telly, the two began to work on their struggling relationship.  
Two weeks out of a second hospital trip, John had hoped his friend would have taken the advice of not only the hospital medical staff but also from John and remained in 221B to rest. Sherlock had not shown himself today. Both men were insistent about their privacy. Sherlock, in particular, was very adamant about the separation of private and interpersonal space... This line of thought led to the disappearance of Charles Augustus Magnussen. The man who came into 221B and urinated in the fireplace after having looked John and Sherlock over as if they were two prime choices of steak for dinner. Magnussen’s interest in Sherlock was obvious as well as disturbing…

The open and slam of the door of the foyer refocused the doctor’s thoughts onto the man he had (always) been worrying about. Footsteps, heavier than usual, came up the steps and paused on the landing in front of the flat’s doorway. 

“Dr. Watson.”

“Mycroft.” Despite Sherlock’s attempts, John- after discovering the identity of the man as the Holmes Brother- actually liked Mycroft. They had a kind of…understanding. “For what do I owe the pleasure?”

Uncharacteristically of the older Holmes, he shifted and averted his gaze to the ground, away from John’s watching eyes. In a low voice, barely a whisper, Mycroft said, “Your assistance is required for the…return of my younger brother.”

John’s eyes blew wide and his heart rate increased. He had thought Sherlock to be in his room. “I’m listening.”

Fiddling with the handle of his umbrella, Mycroft became more confident in stature (if not face). “Sherlock,” his volume increased, “has taken another case. A client came in about two days ago requesting his assistance. Declaring the case ‘simple and boring’, Sherlock had dismissed the man and was about to walk him out when the man…delivered some, other, interesting information.”

The pause that the older Holmes allowed to sit between himself and John gave hint of the serious nature of the information.

“Tell me what he said, Mycroft.”

Almost triumphantly, Mycroft began again, asking, “Has my brother spoken to you about his…two year absence?” John shook his head, already trepidation had settled in his bones. “Ah… Well… Then, this will surely be news to you. I will apologize ahead of time for this, John.” With an air of defeat, Mycroft began the tale of a man… “We had planned this out to the best our combined abilities. Moriarty, while in my custody, was interrogated with many methods. None had proven sufficient. Sherlock, who had deduced Moriarty’s capture, requested that I tell him any new information we had received… We were failing.

“Sherlock and I discussed the nature of the crimes Jim Moriarty had committed, and the extent of the criminal web he had across the globe. I am a powerful man, Dr. Watson, yet, I am not so powerful as to remove an entire underground criminal organization. Thus, we began to devise a plan. Moriarty wanted information about Sherlock; I needed information from him. The solution was simple: give the ‘less important’ information to the man and receive what I needed in return. Sherlock agreed to the exchange with only a few exceptions. There would be no release of specific information about our parentage, location of our estate, and… you, John.”

Gasping, he asked, “Me? But-”

“Yes. Your safety was of the utmost importance…” Mycroft paused to collect himself once more. “I had not predicted the types of, ehm, questions Moriarty had asked. He inquired nothing about anyone or anything but Sherlock. His birthday, his height, weight. Childhood and school. Work. Drugs. As well as other more tedious subjects such as sexual preference, explorations, and experiences… I answered all to the best of my knowledge. The result was, as you and all others had seen, the downfall of the great consulting detective. Sherlock and I had known the man would attempt to destroy Sherlock’s reputation, but what happened on the roof of St. Bart’s was a variable we had not been prepared for.”

Listening intently, the ex-army doctor could not repress a shiver as he remembered the day that Sherlock had fallen… the day he had lost his best friend.

“When Sherlock had ascended to meet Moriarty, his homeless network and some of my men had planned a way to recapture the criminal and prevent the destruction of my brother. Then, James shot himself… Sherlock panicked. It was not what we had planned and, then, new terms were placed on the situation.” Mycroft’s eyes pleaded with John for understanding. “There were three snipers targeting three people: D.I. Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, and … you, John. His options were clear: fall or murder… He chose to fall.” Clearing his throat once more, he asked, “Would you mind making some tea, Dr. Watson? I do believe I have run my throat dry.”

John, understanding Mycroft’s implications- ‘I need a moment to myself’- went into the kitchen to make two cuppas. As he waited for the pot to boil, he processed the information in his mind.

So, Sherlock had agreed to the disclosure of his personal information, but he had circumstances and restrictions. He and Mycroft planned the release and recapture of Moriarty. Their plans were compromised, leading to Sherlock’s death… Why am I not angrier? I should have been told, but… If I had, well… The shots would still have been fired because, oh. Oh! Why, Sherlock? Why didn’t you return sooner? I could have easily forgiven you. My reaction would have been genuine… But, I was still being watched. Oh…oh God. Sherlock.

The kettle whistled and John proceeded to make tea. Mycroft liked his similar to Sherlock: sweet, very sweet, but with some added milk. Returning to the other man- who had moved from the couch to Sherlock’s leather chair- John could finally see just how much older Mycroft had begun to look. His hair was thinning, his face becoming wrinkled, small sunspots were beginning to grow, and his posture was only just slightly rounder… He was also becoming thinner.

“Thank you, doctor… Now, where did I stop? Ah, the fall, well-”

“I don’t want to know, Mycroft. How he survived… I have forgiven him as best I can. I truly have. But, I have had one condition: I don’t want to know.”

Mycroft, with a confused expression, slowly began his story again, “…After he fell, and my men collected him, he was brought to the estate and prepared for departure. He spent two years unravelling Moriarty’s underground criminal web. Two years hunting targets, gathering information, and finishing jobs… Until Serbia. My brother is a headstrong young man, addicted to the thrill of the chase, and dumbed by the challenge of crime. He was misled and captured by a Serbian drug lord and client of Moriarty’s… He was there for a month and a half before I could extract him.

“Despite my brother’s fantasy, he is human… and fallible.”

An uncomfortable silence fell over the two men. One man relived the memories of finding the only person he loved and the other considered the implications of the timespan his friend had been in the clutches of an angry drug lord. Both men found themselves unable to continue, when a knock on the door to the flat startled them.

“Yeah?” John yelled. “Who is it?” He asked as he went to the door. Opening it, before him stood the Detective Inspector, pale and panting. “Greg?”

Ignoring John, Lestrade looked directly at Mycroft and said, “We found him.”

With swift efficiency, Mycroft stood and began to leave. He paused in front of John and whispered, “You have two minutes to come to the car. If you do not hurry, then, you will remain in here until this is finished.”

Faster than he had ever done before, John collected his gun, coat, and wallet. He climbed into the rear seats of the black extended cab sedan. He had fifteen seconds to spare.

“Where are we going? Where has he gone, Mycroft?”

There was no direct reply.

“What’s going on, Mycroft? Answer me!” John shouted.

Sighing, the government official slipped into the place where the older Holmes’s concern once was.

“To save Sherlock.”  
__________________________________________  
//  
“You have two options, Mr. Holmes.”

Sherlock stares into the eyes of his late-adversary’s second-in-command. 

“You can watch as I tear your life apart: taking away your career, killing your friends, terrorizing your city, as well as any other hell I can think of to destroy your very being.” For a moment the man pauses to allow the situation to soak in, but the detective was well aware of the dangers.

Impatiently, Sherlock growls, “And the other option?”

This man crooks a sadistic smile at the consulting detective, “Dance for me.”  
//  
__________________________________________

Short dark curls, alabaster skin, high cheekbones, eyes like the depths of space, or these are some of the things he has heard about himself over the years. As he looks into the mirror backstage, he realizes that, yes, at one point these attributes would have deemed him aesthetically interesting or, maybe even, appealing; however, he is riddled with discolored scars. How could anyone find him physically attractive? Then again, this was not about attraction. This… deal with Satan’s mediator… was about humiliation.

The leather pants clung tightly to his body but allow enough range of motion for quite... risqué… gyrations. The emerald silk shirt enhances the ivory of his skin as it slides over his shoulders. Moriarty’s man was sparing no sensibility. In the corner of the changing room, he spotted an umbrella, fedora, and a pair of black platform strap heels. 

Sparing no sensibility.

// “For each progression, you will save a life or two. The beginning will be simple. Simple moves, simple lives. As your performance ends, well… impress me.” //

¬¬¬  
The car ride was tense. Mycroft was silent except for the occasional texting or huff. John couldn’t help but feel pressured. Once more his best friend was in danger; he lives under constant threat. However, Sherlock’s health was more worrisome. They were still treating fever and infection, so how could he be running about once more?

“You should breathe, Doctor Watson. It would be no good for you to faint before extracting my brother.”

John took a moment to breathe deeply…

“Three minutes. Be ready, Doctor Watson,” the posh man removed a case from beneath his seat. “I have a special role for you.”

¬  
He could hear them settling. The stage being cleaned of cash. Clinks of glasses. Murmurs, a shout from the back, and the unmistakable sound of the changing of a track. The noise, so many noises. His senses were on overload. Worse than the noise, the smells: smoke and alcohol, sweat, musk, and –“You will perform… admirably.”¬- sex pheromones, male pheromones.

Taking a breath, he waited for the first low synthesized note- “Nothing slow or classical. I have, what you could call, a preference.”- and he took the stage.  
-0-0-0-0-0-  
//  
“I want to learn how to dance.”

The fifteen-year-old boy turned slowly to look at his younger brother. Chubby with black curls, the eight-year-old had all the honesty a child could have written in his body language.

“Why is that, Sherly?” Young Mycroft could not help but to disdainful.

“Because… because, I think it is beautiful.” The young child kept his gaze on the floor. With bashful sincerity, “I want to be beautiful.”

And, Mycroft’s heart broke.  
//  
-0-0-0-0-0-0-

He couldn’t see into the crowd, but he could guess Moran was seated at the front and center of the stage. Heels clicked as he made his way, hips swaying to the stage- “None of that male masculinity ‘I’m a fucking man’ shit. Body like yours needs to be… sensual.”- the opening synthesized note dropped into the beginnings of the act.

\- I'm not the one who's so far away/When I feel the snake bite enter my veins/Never did I wanna be here again/ And I don't remember why I came -  
________________________  
The black Sudan stopped just outside the darkened alley, and John could see the lights for an open club a hundred or so feet into the alley. A large man in black stood outside looking around, waiting.

“John,” The elder Holmes brother said looking the other man directly in his eyes, “Moran will be waiting for your presence. He has been alerted of our approach. That man,” he says while pointing to the bouncer outside the club, “is posted so that he may escort you inside. Do not order any food or drink. Do not accept any food or drink. When you are seated at the table, we will know. The camera attached to your jumper will show us your approximate location and those seated within its periphery.”

Nodding his head, John attempts to leave the vehicle before pausing.

“How will I know where Sherlock is?”

With a pause, Mycroft responds, “You’ll know.”  
¬  
//  
“Is there no one you can think of whom you would give your life to protect?” A young girl in Sherlock’s class asked.

Confused, the boy responded, “Why would I want to protect someone?”  
//  
________________________

Ever the soldier, Watson marched towards the large man in black clothes. In a moment he knew he should be somewhat fearful, the soldier would take control. Evaluate the threat; identify areas of cover or escape; prepare for attack, or, in this case, interaction.

“Hullo. I’m Doctor Watson. I believe we have an appointment,” John couldn’t help but to express some sarcasm.

Surprised, the man nods and opens the entrance.

“You are quite a popular man, Captain. There are rumors of you.” His voice is higher than John had assumed. Never trust a stereotype.

“Rumors? I didn’t know. Popular? Probably not. I’m just another guy.”

Chuckling deeply, the man stopped to turn towards John. His eyes were bright with amusement. “You are more than ‘just another guy’, Doctor Watson.”

Slightly uncomfortable, the older man nods and motions to continue. He is led through hallways, on a downward slope, and through an old heavy wooden door. The smell of smoke and alcohol nearly suffocates him when he enters the room. There are men and women scattered about the room. Many are questionable characters, but most appear to be here for a good time. The smoke fogs the area of the room that John is in, but clears as he is lead towards a table by the front center of the stage. He does not pay attention to the girl dancing on the pole closest to him. Instead, he looks at the table’s occupants with a sneer of disgust.

A woman- (late-thirties, dyed red hair, plum lipstick, and emerald dress)- sits next to a man- (late-sixties, balding, divorced but not remarried, lightly applied foundation)- both with drinks in front of them… He had not realized how much Sherlock had affected his abilities to ‘deduce’ others…To their right is another man with tan skin, blonde hair slicked back, two piece suit with the jacket off, cigar in hand, and a scar running over one of his eyes, who appears to be analyzing John just as closely as John is him.

“Hello, John. Do have a seat. It is nice to finally make your… acquaintance.” With a smile of vicious intensity, the man motions for Watson to sit.

“Likewise, Moran.”

“Good! No need for petty, uhm, introductions, then. Marvelous,” he takes a deep drag of the- is that Cuban?¬- cigar in his mouth. “I had hoped you would have some knowledge of who I am. It is, tedious, to have to repeat oneself… Drink? Meal? You must be hungry.”

Remembering Mycroft’s warning, John politely declined. At some point, the girls on stage had swapped, and a new dance had started. This one, apparently, was much more desirable. He could not understand how men could be so…

“Disgusting. The word you want is disgusting. Or, even better: lowly, base, or even degenerate. It is their nature,” Moran murmured in John’s ear.

Slightly startled, John tenses. The deep rumbling at his side does nothing to settle his nerves… neither does the hand along his nape.

“Calm yourself,” the assassin commands. “The show is about to begin.”

Confused once more, John’s blue eyes study the green ones of the man sitting next to him. Turning, he watched as the woman on stage walked off and a quick clean-up was done.

“What show?”

Smiling, “Yours.”  
________________________________

The lights blinded him from having the ability to see the crowd. No matter, his focus was on moving, not analyzing. With ease, he slowly spun his body around the pole, keeping his mind off of the number of performers who had gone before him. Their sweat and skin…

-0-0-0-0-0-  
//  
“You really want to learn how to do this?” Mycroft asked.

“YES! Oh, yes, please, Mycroft!” The twelve-year-old Sherlock begged. “I know ballet, and I can do some interpretive, but, yes, please! I want to do this!”

He never could refuse his brother.  
//  
-0-0-0-0-0-

The smoke, the lights, the hardwood flooring, it was all a blur as he let himself be overtaken by the beat, by the rhythm. He didn’t need to know the words to know the motions. Arching from the floor, a sharp pain shot through his abdomen and up his spin. Gasping, he rolled to his stomach and dragged himself slowly up with the pole. It would do no good to show weakness. He must carry on.  
__________________________________

John was captured. There could be no other way to describe his current state-of-being. ‘Captured’ perfectly defined his mindset. Beside him, he could hear the deep rumble of Moran’s voice as he commented about something, but John could care less. This, this moment was not for Moran.

Sherlock looked… beautiful under the lights. The emerald brought out the infinity of colors of his eyes. The leather clung so well to his toned legs.

The heels were sinful.

Something Moran said prompted John to respond, “Not gay,” but with very little strength behind the words…

“Are you sure?” Moran whispered. “Because, I see otherwise.”

And, John left the table. He was so close, but so far away. The sway of those hips; the strength with which Sherlock lifted his body; the muscles rippling under the cloth… John wanted to see more.

“Oh, dear God,” he mumbled. With a particular twist and small thrust of his body, Sherlock made John’s knees go out, and only the chair the assassin placed behind the ex-soldier stopped John’s fall.

“Don’t forget to breathe, Doctor Watson.” A hand crawled down the doctor’s front as he watched his best friend dance. “If he doesn’t remove something soon, well, he and I did have a deal.”

Gasping slightly, John quickly removed Moran’s hand from his waistline and glanced between the man beside him and the one on stage.

// “Who would Sherlock Holmes protect?” //

“You.”  
_______________________________________

“Mycroft, I need a signal!” Lestrade hollered through the phone. “Sally, prepare the team. Let them know we go in silent but cautious. This is Colonel Sebastian Moran. We cannot fuck this up.”

With a curt nod, she acknowledged him, “Yes, sir.”

¬¬¬¬

He could feel the song coming to an end. Less than two minutes to impress. With a descent down the pole, he opened his shirt and allowed the fabric to ease from his shoulders to the floor. The feel of the satin’s kissing graze was enough to keep his mind focused on the dance and the music, and not the possibility that it might not be enough to save their lives.

________________________________________

He had thought it couldn’t become any more enthralling, but Sherlock never failed to impress. Watching that simple fabric fall to the floor was as if a god John Hamish Watson was unsure if it existed had revealed the darkest, yet most fulfilling pleasure of life itself.

If the groan beside him said anything, it was that he was not the only one under Sherlock’s spell.

A sheen of sweat glistened on an alabaster chest and back… But, John lost his daze as he saw the scarring. Another spin showed John the darkening bruise around the most recent wound, and the doctor’s chest clenched. This couldn’t happen again, but if he interrupted the dance, he was sure the “deal” would be broken… And, John would not endanger the lives of his friends.

// “So, what exactly am I supposed to do once I get in? How am I supposed to find Sherlock? You tell me I’ll know, but, really? I need a plan, Mycroft. Some form of action to follow.” Aggravated, the doctor tugged at his greying hair and leaned back into the plush seat.

“I want you to sit back. Stay calm. And, allow whatever happens to happen. Tonight, you are not a soldier, John. Tonight, you will be a doctor, and trust me when I say it will be needed.”  
//

There were only a few reasons Sherlock would make a deal with someone like Moran: to gain intelligence or understanding, to ‘play the Game’, or, at the base of all his reasons, to save the lives of those he loved.

John finally understood.

“You do realize,” he whispered into the assassin’s ear, “I will kill you?”

Laughing heartily, those Devil’s green eyes met with blue skies.

“Will you, now, Doctor Watson?”  
¬¬¬

“Prepare your men, Detective Inspector. There is about to be an East Wind.”

_________________________________________

Sherlock could feel the music dwindling. Ignoring his pain, he continued. Thirty seconds to make this right, to save their lives… Make it count.

_________________________________________

John returned his gaze to the stage and watched as Sherlock took hold of the pole once more, pulled his body up, and used the momentum to continue downwards. His eyes were closed, his muscles as relaxed as possible, and his soul bore on his sleeve.

“Absolutely.”

**Author's Note:**

> So, let me know what you think. If you watch this video: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AaQ2pL7CyDM 
> 
> This is the inspiration for the dance. The girl in this video blew my mind...
> 
> I have a headcanon that Sherlock is a skilled dancer and uses it as a way to pass the time, but he doesn't normally dance in a public setting. Just a studio. So, he has to imagine himself by himself... And he gets lost in the motions.


End file.
